Tanya

One day after school

I was running the tracks

back into the country

in early spring, sunlight

glazing the chips of coal,

old bottles and beer cans

shoaling the sides. I ran

for miles, stripped

to the belly, dogwood

odors in the air like song.

When I stopped for breath

I saw there were women

bending in the ferns.

They spoke in Polish,

their scarlet dresses

scraping the ground

as they combed for mushrooms,

plucking from the grass

blond spongy heads

and filing their pouches.

But the youngest one

danced to herself in silence.

She was blond as sunlight

blowing in the pines.

I whispered to her. . .Tanya.

She came when the others

moved away, and she gave me

mushrooms, touching my cheek.

I kissed her forehead:

it was damp and burning.

I found myself sprinting

the whole way home

with her bag of mushrooms.

The blue sky rang

like an anvil stung

with birds, as I ran

for a thousand miles to Poland

and further east, to see her

dancing, her red skirt

wheeled in the Slavic sun.